Milk Barn Horror Pt. 01

THE FARM

A wiry cowboy in earth-stained chaps leans against a faded barn. Calloused fingers roll a cigarette. He looks toward the slumping ruin of the farmhouse as three figures approach, walking abreast in the noonday heat. They pass among timeworn wooden livestock pens.

The middle of the three is female, grossly fat. Her naked flesh is oily in the harsh sun. A dark blindfold cuts across her eyes, yet what can be seen of her face is extremely beautiful. Leather cuffs secure dimpled elbows behind her back. She walks between two large men, proud in her bearing, eager, expectant. Hard-nippled breasts swing above her navel. The men on either side grip a metal bar that hooks through a thick leather collar at her neck. Breasts heaving, her sagging bulk is perfectly controlled as the men guide her briskly forward.

The woman's handlers do not glance at the cowboy who stands in the barn's meager strip of shade. His gaze follows as the eerie trio walks by, following a worn dirt path marked by many tire tracks. His nose is rusty and bent as a nail.

It takes the silent figures some time to dwindle from view. Silhouetted against the skyline of a distant rise, they vanish near an abandoned grain silo.

Behind the outbuilding where the cowboy stands is a haphazard cluster of derelict cars. Some doors stand open, upholstery cracked by merciless sun, once-brilliant paint now caked with dust. Feminine belongings scatter on the wind.

This place is named for no old-time family. There is no identifying sign where the long dirt road meets the distant highway. These rotting buildings, this dead earth, cause passing locals to hit the gas. People in the area simply call it The Farm.

The cowboy finishes his smoke and walks toward the largest of the barns. It is milking time.

ROADBLOCK

Tracy Ransom and River Katz talk excitedly as the little sports car eats up miles to their home town. Bound for summer break, the college roommates are eager to reconnect with family and friends, visit old haunts they enjoyed in high school.

"My phone is buggered," River says in the passenger seat. "I've got bars, but this map doesn't look right."

"Try mine," Tracy says with a gesture at the center console. Tracy is easily described as a tall hot blonde. At least that's what the university frat boys use in emails and texts about the full-breasted sophomore. Her charming face is intent on guiding the sports car through a tricky bend. Around them on the country two-lane are barbed wire fences and green fields, scattered farmhouses with neatly-painted grain silos, cows in verdant pastures.

"Too weird," River says, looking at their phones side by side. "Mine shows a completely different map. The last town was Kampfburg, right?" River is younger, shorter, and dark-haired. She has a slimmer figure, a gentle face of caramel skin. For such a small girl, River's bustline is considerable.

Tracy glances over, trying to get a look at the phones. "I think so. Do you think we took the wrong route?"

"Well, we agreed to cut through back country, for the scenery."

"True that," Tracy says. "And I love it out here. I could live somewhere like this. But where are we?"

Rounding a bend, their conversation is cut short by the sight of emergency vehicles ahead. Flashing reds on a police car and a tow truck. Tracy slows her small car and they creep toward the scene. The road ahead is blocked. She stops well back from the wreck. A tow driver is hooking up to extract a vehicle from the roadside ditch.

A very tall policeman walks toward their car. Tracy rolls down her window.

"Afternoon, officer. No one hurt I hope?"

"Farmer drove his pickup in the ditch. It will be about fifteen minutes and we'll have you moving."

From where the cop stands, he can look down on Tracy's long blond hair and her generous breasts. Driving in the small car has caused the short skirt to hike up her athletic legs.

She sees him looking and wishes she'd thought to pull the skirt down. Her cheeks flush crimson.

"Glad no one's hurt. We'll wait."

The tall patrolman turns back to his vehicle. Tracy lifts her rump and tugs her skirt into place. "I practically let him see my tonsils," the young woman says.

River giggles.

THEIR TERRIBLE CRIME

The women wait patiently as the heat rises. Fifteen minutes go by, twenty. They can see very little going on at the wreck site. The occasional movements seem to accomplish little.

"I have to pee," River says.

Tracy laughs. "You read my bladder."

Tall bushes nearby. The pair steps from the car, grin at one another over the roof, and head for opposite sides of the road.

Tracy finds a reasonably private place, reaches under her skirt and slips the black thong to her knees. She debates stepping out of it but doesn't. She squats and waits for her stream to start.

Out of sight across the road, River, wearing jeans, has a tougher problem. She is going commando style today and would prefer to take her jeans completely off. But the bulky running shoes make that difficult. Also it would leave her butt-naked in the bushes, something she will not risk with men so close. Carefully she prepares to do her business.

When Tracy steps from the bushes straightening her skirt, she's shocked to see the tall cop standing near her car. River is not in sight.

"Miss, we do have a county ordinance about bodily functions in the open. Were you doing something in there?"

Tracy stops, red in the face. "Umm. What do you mean exactly?"

The cop's face darkens. "What I mean miss, is were you pissing or shitting?"

Tracy takes a tiny step back. "Well, to be truthful..."

The cop cuts her off harshly. "The truth is all that matters, miss. Now answer my question."

"I was urinating."

"Not the other?"

"Definitely not." This line of questioning has Tracy completely rattled. The cop is unsettling and embarrassing. Invasive. She glances toward his car, which blocks the road. The wrecker and whatever it was towing are gone.

"We'll see about that," the cop says sternly. At this moment River steps from the bushes, buttoning her jeans. Her face shows concern when she sees Tracy facing the tall cop. Tracy, although 5 feet 6, is dwarfed by the patrolman. He turns to River.

"Miss, kindly tell me what you were doing in the bushes."

"Taking a leak," she says matter-of-factly.

"Ladies, I will at this time require to see your ID and vehicle registration and insurance."

The two young women share dark looks. They hurry to comply. When they have handed their papers to the officer, he orders them to sit in the car. Instead of looking at the paperwork, he walks first to the bushes where Tracy did her business. He is in there for several minutes. River and Tracy share few words and many worried glances.

When the cop steps out he carries a baggie with dirt in it. Completely ignoring the tense women in the car, he crosses to the bushes where River did her thing, soon emerges, now with two dirt-filled baggies.

He places the baggies on the hood of Tracy's car, right in their line of vision. The baggies with their muddy contents seem to glare accusingly. The cop spends some time looking at their papers.

"Everything seems in order, ladies. We'll ask you now for a DNA swab and you can be on your way. Also you, Miss Ransom, will need to blow into our breathalyzer."

"DNA test? Since when has that been a requirement?"

"County law miss. Ladies, please walk to my vehicle."

Nervously, the two get out and follow the patrolman. Although it had been sunny when they'd stopped the car, the sky darkens with blowing clouds. The cop pops the trunk.

He hands Tracy the breathalyzer. "Just take a full breath and exhale it completely into the mouthpiece."

While Tracy is doing that, he brings out two baggies each containing a long wooden stick with cotton on the end. The cop takes the breathalyzer from Tracy.

"This shows dangerously high alcohol levels, miss. How much have you had to drink today?"

Tracy is aghast. "What? I had a glass of wine last night! Yesterday! Something must be wrong with your device."

"I must insist you keep your tone under control miss." His glare stops her cold.

"Yes, officer," she says meekly, not looking at him, but still angry.

He removes the long cotton swab from one of the baggies.

"Alright, Miss Ransom, you can be first. Just lift your skirt and bend over for me."

Tracy backs away, face dark in disbelief. "What? Those swabs are for the cheeks! Not the ass cheeks!"

"Miss, you are dangerously close to paying a fine. These are vaginal swabs. Please bend over and lift your skirt for me."

The idea of this tall cop squatting behind her naked bottom to probe her vagina with the long swab makes Tracy queasy.

"Is there another option? I don't want to do that out in the open like this."

"Besides," River adds, "that sort of thing should be done by a woman cop."

"Miss Katz, I will caution you at this time about your tone of voice. Will you cooperate with the vaginal swab?"

"No! Absolutely not!" River is in shock at the direction this conversation is taking.

"I can take you to the station. We have a licensed physician there."

Tracy and River look at each other hard. Tracy gulps. River finally says, "If you're sure you have to, we'll follow you to the station."

"I must ask you ladies at this time to face away from me. Hands on top of your heads, lace your fingers." The stern look he has for them keeps the girls from making any comment. They turn and do as he orders.

"Legs apart, please. I said legs apart now! Wider Miss Ransom."

The patrolman takes Tracy's hands one by one and snaps metal cuffs to both wrists, behind her back.

She whimpers, realizes she is handcuffed with legs apart in a short skirt on a lonely back road. The cop quickly does the same to River. He frisks River first, traveling his hands down her arms and feeling up the sides of her torso. His large hands pass over her breasts and probe along the edges of her bra. River hisses angrily between her teeth. In a squat, the cop feels down River's legs, slides his hands up and presses hard into her crotch. River jerks at the intrusive touch.

"I'll need your full cooperation," the cop says harshly. He reaches into River's jeans pockets, removing everything and placing it into a baggie.

He turns to Tracy. Besides the short blue skirt, she wears a light short-sleeved sweater top with a cutaway neckline. The cop's big hands grip her shoulders, slide down her bare arms. His touch gives her a shiver.

The patrolman feels around her ribcage, works his hands toward her breasts. She's wearing the kind of bra that cups her from underneath without covering the tops of her soft mammary glands. His fingers spend time there. When he brushes a nipple through her thin sweater, Tracy's body jerks. Her breath catches when he squats behind her. He pats around her hips and buttocks. From one ankle he slides his hands up a bare leg. He does not stop until hard fingers press her skimpy thong. Tracy gives a faint bleat of protest at the rude touch but does not speak.

The cop feels the other leg. Tracy trembles as the hand moves up her bare inner thigh. When the hand gets to her crotch, he grazes a finger back and forth, caressing her sex lips beneath the damp thong. She is humiliated to be touched by this man. The cop raises the back of Tracy's skirt high enough to see the black thong vanish between bare buttocks. Tracy shivers. He can feel she's wet.

Standing, the tall patrolman guides Tracy to the rear of the patrol car, places the trembling girl inside and slams the door. Soon River is beside her. They exchange worried glances but say nothing.

"Sir," Tracy says politely, "what about my car?"

"I'll call the tow truck. Your car will be at the station when we're done."

"Will I have to pay for the tow?"

"Yes. Remember, this trip to the station was at your request. You could have been on your way by now, with full cooperation."

Tracy looks at River. The glance they exchange says it is better to pay the wrecker than get their pussies probed in the middle of a country road. What if someone came along and saw them? Tracy is also thinking, what other phony requirement this cop could make up after that degrading treatment.

The car takes them slowly along the country road, the sky dark with blowing clouds. After twenty minutes they arrive at an isolated farm, set far back from the road. The patrol car turns into the long narrow track between pasture fences. On her side, Tracy watches weathered fence posts go by, strung with barbed wire. Nothing grows on either side of the road. There are no crops, no tilled fields. It is barren.

River, looking out her side, notices something that grips her tummy. Although the sun had been high when they stopped out on the road, it is now close to setting. Ahead of them a cluster of colorless farm buildings stands forlorn in the dead land. The place looks deserted. No cheery lighted windows break the deepening gloom.

They pass a dark three-story farmhouse, and pull up amid the buildings beneath the only light; a bare bulb above the scarred door of a plain, two-story structure.

"What is this place?" River demands.

"This is our temporary precinct station," says the cop. "We're handling things here until our new headquarters can be built." The cop gets out and walks up the steps and inside, leaving the frightened women locked in the back of the car.

"Tracy. I'm scared."

"I know, babe. Me too. We'll get through this. I have Dad's credit card."

"Did he read us our rights? Did he formally arrest us?"

Tracy had not thought of that. "No. It's like we're being detained for a vaginal smear."

"OMG can they do that? Where is the local judge?"

"This place is creepy."

The cop comes out with another man, an avuncular, chubby fellow wearing a white lab coat open in front. Underneath he wears jeans and a collar shirt. The men approach opposite sides of the car and help the girls out.

"I am Doctor Phere," the white-coated man says. "Sorry for your inconvenience, this is the quickest way to get you on the road again."

As they are led toward the building, Tracy notices that it's now completely dark. At the bottom of the steps stands an old woman in a dress with dark flower patterns on it. The woman's enormous breasts stretch her stained yellow apron. On the porch stands a very old man, quite thin, in farmer's bib overalls and a checked shirt. He wears a straw hat and dark round sunglasses that make River giggle nervously. Like he's trying to be cool. The man lifts a hand and everyone stops. The cop and the doctor freeze in place, holding tight the girls' arms.

The man speaks, but it comes out an ancient croak that no one understands.

"That's Ezekiel," the old woman explains. She says her name is Mamie. "He's in charge here. He says a great wind is coming. I say you two should stay overnight to be safe. Ezekiel is never wrong."

As they pass, the old woman looks up at Tracy. Her fingers pinch the girl's rounded bottom. "Need a job? We can use a new farm hand like you."

"Uh-uh," is all Tracy can manage, flinching from the touch.

"Dinner's on when you sweet girls get done."